


Just Breathe

by lesbleusthroughandthrough



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: M/M, a band I had a very mild obsession with in 2008, a poor inculsion of Elliot Minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:58:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2151579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbleusthroughandthrough/pseuds/lesbleusthroughandthrough
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brice and Max meet after falling in love on tumblr.</p><p>(I lowered the age a bit, but I hope it still works ^^)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caravanslost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravanslost/gifts).



_Parallel Worlds_ had started this all for Maxime. In fact it was that stupid, building riff echoing through the radio, the one that made your fingers itch to reach for the volume control. If he hadn’t turned up the car stereo that morning on the way to school- if it hadn’t been for that dentist appointment, if he’d only taken the bus, if he hadn’t felt that burning desire to type that one line of lyrics sneakily into the Google search bar in his computer class, he would never have been in this stupid situation that he was now.

It had just... sucked him in. That first song he’d heard- the notes even mimicking the chills running up his spine- had just _caught_ him. That had been the summer of Madonna, JT and Timbaland; Rihanna’s new hair chop and nothing, _nothing_ that had made his fingers itch to pick up his guitar again. The album- bought later that week; out of intense frustration for his internet speed- was perfect. It appealed to Max in this weird way that few had before. All the songs were a perfect mix of themes: sad, happy, frustration, wonder and- almost as a first- they had him hooked on his first listen. Sure, it was a long way from the rock and roll hall of fame, a Grammy, and especially the chart. That wasn’t important to Max. They’d appealed to his sixteen year-old self from that first note, and the excitement had grown as the album had progressed.

Elliot Minor. A band that had barely charted- neither obscure, nor technically successful- and none of the band members could even imagine, could even care, just how much that one CD would reform Max’s life. How he’d listen to it on repeat the whole way through his school exams, listen to it in his sleep, make reconsider his guitar lessons, and Brice.

Shortly after the fight Max had had with his mother about re-starting guitar lessons (two weeks before his exams, and Max’s mother knew best that procrastination was a particular talent of his) during a defiant sulk he’d Googled the chords for one of the tracks anyway. He knew he would struggle to play most of the tunes, besides the fact that two guitars featured on pretty much all the tracks, but maybe if he was just terrible enough his mother might reconsider.

His first few links for “ _Lucky_ _Star_ chords” lead to dead ends, and finally his mouse rested on a link to _Tumblr_. The post at the other end contained a link to all of Elliot Minor’s last live performances, including several acoustic sets. But the sheet music? Max chewed his lip in contemplation- this required further investigation... and grilling the post’s owner on their sources.

He hesitated- everyone from school had tumblr, and since Max liked to consider himself as not-like-everyone-from-school, he wondered briefly how much totally conformity would hurt.

He sighed and signed up.

***

Brice could not put in to words how much he now _hated_ that _stupid_ band. He thought about it now as he dug the CD from the bottom of his considerably large collection. He’d dabbled in _Elliot Minor_ during that brief, rebellious, pre-exam phase in oh-eight... until he’d realised that rebelling wasn’t completely his thing.

In most ways.

Even he could not have predicted that strange after-effect, almost after-rebellion of the brief deviation from his comfortable, three-meal-a-day, harmonious, J-Crew life.

First, there had been Max. Before Max, there had been a bright red notification glaring at him above his mailbox when he’d turned his computer on after school. And then there had been a steady stream of them, questions, all from the same “ _maxi-123”._

Max hated his username. Brice loved it.

Casual reply-tag had begun to build, until Brice’s heart would drop if he logged online to find his mailbox empty after school, and more than once he’d turn down the traditional chip run after rugby practise to sprint home in the hope of finding Max waiting. Online, of course.

Max was a _musician_. Well, he said he wasn’t, but Brice was sure he was being modest. Over the last couple of months he had been going back to lessons after all. And when Max had accidentally dropped his second name in conversation, Brice had dug out his facebook profile, and suddenly he had a face to go with the name.

The first thing that had struck him about Max’s face- or at least his profile photo- was that his mouth twisted downwards in an almost-bemused fashion, even though it was apparent in his eyes, despite the poor photo quality, that whatever had made him that disappointed was also a slight source of amusement. From that moment on Brice had recognised the dry wit in all of Max’s tags that he had been logging on so regularly to read.

The second thing Brice had noticed was that this guy who had taken so much time out of his life to talk to him was _stunning_. He had long hair that flopped over his eyes- or one eye- like so many members of that band he wouldn’t quit banging on about. He had all the rock-star-slash-catwalk-model features: long nose, high cheeks, brown eyes that were far too big. He was also far too brown for someone who professed to prefer the inside, trying to decipher sheet music and maths homework than work on his tan.

That’s really when it had started- the crush on Max. He’d denied it for a long time. Girls had never really been his thing, but it was when he’d found himself half-dreaming of rolling that vaguely labelled band t-shirt up over Max’s coppery stomach- and wondering his he was as built under it as his well-defined arms had suggested- that he’d declared the gig to be up. And from that point on, Brice had been in to guys.

The bronzed god part of Max aside, he now craved Max’s opinion. His friends at school all knew about his “friend from Bordeaux”. As they moved through fandoms together, in their little world cloaked in a cerulean, Brice wished desperately that they could be in the same room, just once. That they didn’t have to watch that football game so obviously distracted or describe that movie scene without the help of furious hand gestures. That he could find out if he was really friends with a person and not a million hilarious messages, a collection of Facebook photographs and a soft voice at the end of a telephone line.

He had also wished, a little guiltily, for the opportunity to someday roll Max’s tshirt up and over his head to find out what was hiding underneath.

In the present Brice placed the CD down on his desk and touched at the matching tickets resting beside it. A  pop-punk festival being held just outside town. He traced one finger under one of the lesser acts of the evening.

 _Elliot-bloody-Minor_ , he thought dully. _The things I do to get your attentio_ n, _Maxi_. _And in the next twenty-four hours_ , _maybe I’ll find out a bit more about all these... things I’ve ever wondered about you._

 “Brice!” his brother’s voice drifted up the stairs, “it’s time to get that lover of yours from the station!”

***

Max felt nervous, and not in the way that one normally would when going to meet someone from the internet. That had been cleared up several weeks ago. Brice had requested rather shyly (and later muttering under his breath) that their mothers could discuss the trip between them. Max reckoned that Brice thought they were all a bit too cool for this, but in fact Max was relieved, because he hadn’t yet figured out how he was going to explain his two day disappearance to his own mother. Once it was decided that neither of them was a closet axe murderer (“ _or_ just _really_ good ones,” Brice had pointed out) Max had ended up better off than when he’d started: a bed (“a couch”, Brice had admitted, “a very comfy one though”), tickets to see his favourite band, and with his best friend: Brice.

No- Max was still nervous. He was worried that when this train would slowly grind to a halt in the station that Brice would be disappointed with Max when he stepped off. Max had cleaned himself up as best he could- he’d even got a haircut- but that wasn’t the problem either.

Max was just terrified that he wasn’t the guy he came across online. He was more of a spectator than a star in any show, but the thing about the internet was that he gave you time and space to be funny even when no one was listening. And then when they did listen, like Brice had... but Brice just seemed to _breeze_ through life.  He couldn’t bear the thought of Brice discovering just how cripplingly shy  he really was when he wasn’t speaking to Brice through a screen, or later, through his phone as they whispered to each other under the covers late at night.

Max loved those conversations. Brice just had a voice that you couldn’t help but like: deep, mischievous- he even sounded like he was smiling when he spoke. And they spoke for _hours._ When they’d finally hang up Max would curl up with his earphones and listen to _Elliot Minor_ ’s last album track... and Brice would just continue to smile in his head until he slept. He didn’t tell Brice about this because he even found it creepy- but the song, _Last Call to New York City_ , had just developed to be expressly Brice’s.  It was slow, and sad, and about leaving everything behind to be with someone.

And Max tried hard not to think about the meaning of that.

***

“You are _not_ allowed,” Brice growled, “to refer to Max as _anything_ else but his first name. Okay?”

Brice’s brother turned off the engine and grinned. “I promise. I wouldn’t want to offend your... _sweetheart_.”

Brice growled and aimed to clip his brother’s ear. Well versed, his older sibling ducked well clear of the swipe and laughed. Brice’s family had taken his recent exit from the closet quite well. The question now, was would Max.

“I _swear_ -“

“I know- _I know_!” Brice’s brother turned the radio down. “Poor Maxi seems to be the only one who doesn’t know though. Aren’t you lucky he turned out to be a real person?”

Brice turned the radio back up again. “’Maxi’ is also _not_ his first name.” He opened the door and tried not to leap out with too much enthusiasm. He knew his brother would punish him with jibes for that kind of behaviour at a later date.

***

 _Does he ever stop smiling?_ Max thought with wonder. Brice had smiled the whole way to his house (when he’d turned from the front seat to talk to Max anyway), smiled as Max had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being presented to Brice’s parents, and now, smiled at Max from his bedroom door as Max followed him up the stairs.

The first thing he’d noticed about Brice in the station was that smile- permanently etched in to the creases of his cheeks, even when he wasn’t in the conversation. Max had never met someone whose resting face was a smile, or even who smiled quite so genuinely- because something was funny, or because he was happy, or- mostly- because he seemed pleased with himself. And despite his nerves, Max found himself smiling back.

It hadn’t been awkward yet, but while Brice seemed glad to get away from the small talk his family had presented, Max began to feel nervous again... and a long way from home.

Brice. He was shorter and a bit stockier than he’d imagined. His voice was almost too deep for his stature. There was so much about him that Max wanted to... _smooth out_. He’d missed a spot shaving under his jaw line, and his shirt collar sat twisted. The walls of his room were covered with posters and ticket stubs from an insane amount of musicians- Springsteen, Green Day, the Arctic Monkeys, Coldplay, and at that Max had only done a preliminary sweep- that hid the light blue paint of his surroundings. Pity, because Max really liked blue.

“Mum is going to drop us out to the field in about an hour,” Brice said cheerfully as he closed the door behind him. “So I guess we can... well, hang for a bit up here. Otherwise she’ll just continue to feed you.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” Max was stuffed from the enormous dinner Brice’s mother had had ready for them when he’d arrived. Max loved his own family to pieces, but this household was so comfortable, and humour seemed to be a valid form of currency under its roof.

Brice laughed and shook his head. Up close, Max decided that Brice had very nice features. _Kind_ , he thought. He settled himself on Brice’s bed, and let himself marvel at Brice’s huge collection of memorabilia... and at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck on his roof.

“They’ve been there since I was five,” Brice said, noting the direction of Max’s gaze. “And they aren’t coming down.”

Max smiled. It was a poor attempt, being alone with Brice made him... tense. Brice knew more about him than anyone else, as Max had blathered away to him over the last year.  Brice knew every detail of his life and what Max wanted to do with it, something Max was regretting right now. And Brice didn’t seem fazed at all, which only seemed to make him more unsettled- if he wasn’t already, he was well on his way to becoming the most self-assured person Max had ever met. Max wondered if he was running out of chances to be funny, because he wanted very desperately for someone this cool to like him. He resisted the urge to duck his head and let his hair fall over his eyes.

Then he remembered that he’d cut his hair, and that it didn’t reach his eyes anymore.

“If you’re not going to rush off tomorrow,” Brice continued smoothly, “the new Harry Potter is on in town, I haven’t seen it yet because I thought, er, that you might like to come too? That could be fun...” he trailed off, and Max realised that it was to leave him room for an answer.

“Uh... I guess?” he answered unhelpfully.

Brice chuckled. “Good. It’s meant to be even worse than the last one.”

Max felt himself laugh at that. “Impossible,” he snorted. “It can’t be any worse than completely cutting Dobby from it.”

Brice looked pleased that he’d made Max laugh. “Well, we can be sure that they’ll totally weird up all of the scenes between Ginny and Harry, even if they could act. I’ll never forgive them for leaving out that first chapter with the Muggle Prime Minister.”

“So much potential wasted.”

“I _know_.”

Max realised that the nerves in his stomach had disappeared. He suddenly went silent. Brice didn’t notice- he had his back turned and was rummaging through his cupboard. “I have something to show you-“ he started, voice muffled, “Dad found it in the attic...” something thumped in the back of the cupboard and Brice swore.

Max flinched, then giggled. Whatever the harm caused, Brice didn’t seem to be too injured.

 

Brice turned around- a held a ukulele out in Max’s direction.

“Mini guitar,” he said excitedly. “Right?”

“Um...” Max wanted to laugh at his enthusiasm. “I suppose... but I don’t think that means-“

Brice bounded across the room and Max found the tiny instrument thrust into his arms.

“- I can play it.”

Brice sat down on the bed beside him. “It’s not that much different though, is it?”

“Um,” Max shifted around to face him, holding the ukulele between them. “Well, no: my guitar has six-strings- actually, all guitars have six strings- and this ukulele has only four.” He strummed his fingers along the strings as he counted. “One...two... three... four. See?”

He looked up. Brice looked fascinated. His knee pressed in against Max’s as he leaned towards him and it was warm- Max felt colour seep slowly in to his cheeks.

“Oh...” Brice looked thoughtful, his gaze not locked on Max’s strumming fingers but his face. “Pity, I was hoping you could teach me.” Unlike the entire male populace of Max’s school, Brice didn’t smell like fancy aftershave, or even cheap deodorant. He smelled distinctly soapy instead.

Max’s cheeks now _burned._

“Uh...” he murmured, “I don’t know what I can teach you in an hour. I mean... I don’t even really know that much myself.” He pushed all the late night practising of _Last Call to New York_ out of his head to maintain the lie. “Just... some chords and stuff.”

“Go on,” Brice urged softly.

“Go on, what?”

“Show me,” Brice goaded eagerly.

Max swallowed. He’d read the first chapter of _The Complete Idiot’s Guide to the Ukulele_... once... in a bookshop... on holiday... and now, miraculously, none of it would come to mind.

He strummed once softly, uselessly, his eyes suddenly trapped in Brice’s.

Brice shifted closer. Max told himself to look away, that this could not be comfortable for either of them... but this was... not entirely unpleasant. He stared at Brice and Brice stared back, and Max’s body temperature rose sharply to greet the glow in his cheeks.

Brice’s  eyes were brown.

 _Don’t sweat,_ he pleaded. _Don’t blink, don’t sweat, and for God’s sake, you cannot possibly blush anymore that you already are._

“Maxi...” Brice began quietly. He could have leaned closer, bent slightly over Max’s lap where his hands still held the ukulele between them, but Max could have imagined it.

The only person who had ever called him “Maxi” was his little sister, but this was not like that. Brice was careful with the word, like it was only for certain occasions, like it was something to be kept between themselves.

“Yeah?” Max whispered, after a pause. He wasn’t breathing. Why wasn’t he breathing? What was this sudden tension in his stomach?

Max couldn’t help that his eyes suddenly swept across Brice’s cheeks and down to his mouth.

There was a long moment where neither of them breathed.

And then the doorbell rang.

Brice breathed out slowly. He swallowed, sat back and grinned, making Max realise that for once, he hadn’t been smiling.

“That’ll be Marc,” he said calmly, getting up and walking to the door. Max didn’t think to ask who Marc was, he felt suddenly light headed and lowered himself back on to Brice’s bed covers. He closed his eyes.

 _Was he going to... kiss me?_ Max wondered. Surely not. Brice was...

Even if Brice _wasn’t_ , he thought, _I don’t_ think _I am._ His head was spinning too much to keep hold of the thought, it swam around and around in his brain with Brice’s soapy smell and his unsmiling lips.

***

Brice couldn’t help the feeling that he’d blown it.

Max had gone quiet. And Brice could count on one hand the syllables he’d uttered since Marc had dashed in to the room. Most of these had been “fine”.

Brice could have _killed_ Andreu- he was meant to meet them at the arena, to give Brice and Max some time on their own. But Marc had been ringing Brice’s doorbell the same way for thirteen years, and by now he knew that sound.

“But I wanted to see him!” Marc had exclaimed, “I’m your best friend, shouldn’t I get to check him out too?”

Brice hoped that the kick he’d aimed at Marc’s shin had been interpreted as “no”. But it was too late- the wall had gone up and Max had fallen back into this shyness that... drove Brice _crazy._

It had been bad before they’d met in the flesh, but from the moment he’d found Max waiting for him inside the station, he’d bitten back the furious urge to reach out and touch him. Max certainly _looked_ soft, and he’d certainly felt it as Brice pressed against him when they’d sat together on his bed. And they way he’d cradled the old ukulele in his hands, and ran his fingers so tenderly along the strings... Brice had never wished to be a musical instrument before, but that time he came close.

This was the Max he’d always known, the Max from his messages. A bit quieter, but that was okay- Max showed his nerves through his shyness, like Brice sometimes showed his nerves by being unable to smile. But it was worse- because all Brice wanted now was to be near him, he was so filled with this crazy urge to touch him- touch the soft ruffle of his curls, bouncing gently on his brow; touch the heat from that blush in his cheeks, cup his face in his hands. He wished he could be the one to make him smile, all the time- to make his face light up like it did.

And if he’d kissed him? Brice hadn’t even realised that was what he had been trying to do until he’d found his face level with Max’s, felt that incredible heat from Max’s body warm him. Even on the way in to the arena, even in the car, he’d found reasons to touch him- pretend he was bumping off him, guide him towards Elliot Minor’s stage... but all it did was increase the hunger for Max that he didn’t know would ever be sated.

But he hadn’t kissed him. And he wished he hadn’t given himself the idea.

“Marc?” He yelled suddenly, turning around to find his stocky next-door neighbour behind him. Elliot Minor were halfway through their set, and five seconds ago Max had been beside him,- Brice knew this, because he’d try and nonchalantly touch Max’s hand whenever he could, brush it softly with the tips of his fingers, to allow his body the most tiny of releases. And while thinking about Max, he’d lifted his hand to find Max no longer there.

“Where is he, Marc?”

Marc blinked. “Max?”

“No, _idiot_. Santa Claus.”

Marc shrugged. “I think he said he was going for a smoke?”

Smoke? But Max didn’t smoke. Brice felt his stomach fold in on itself.

He’d brought Max to see his favourite band, but he suddenly worried that he’d terrified him by being too forward. For one, Max had never said anything about being out. And Brice had forgotten, he’d been so caught up in the chemical reactions of his body to the presence of Max’s; that he’d forgotten that all Max saw was a platonic relationship.

He wished now that he’d just told him that he liked him, that he _only_ liked _him_.

And now he’d ruined the night he’d tried for months to get so right.

“Brice?” Marc asked cautiously, yelling now over the jumping chorus of one of the more cheerful tracks on Elliot Minor’s set.

Brice felt all the happiness he had felt in the last few hours just melt away.

“I fucked up,” he cried, trying to swallow back quickly evolving tears of panic. “I _completely_ fucked up.”

***

For the first, and hopefully the last, time- Max really wished that he smoked. That would give him a reason to be standing here, near the entrance gate in to the festival, looking so glum. Smokers always looked glum, and for some reason the nicotine stick in their hands always counted as company.

 _How long_ , he wondered, _was it going to take me before I realised that all this- the band_ , _the guitar_ , _all of it- how long was it going to take me to figure out that in some weird way it was all because I was in love with Brice?_

Maybe “love” was too strong a word, but it wasn’t too strong a sentiment. The minute Brice had been distracted by Marc’s presence, jealously had tightened its hands around his throat. Max could barely function because of it. He wanted to go back to that moment where neither of them had breathed, to the way Brice had softly bestowed him with a name.

He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear the thought of Brice spending time with someone else. It was terrifying how much it hurt.

But what was Max meant to do? _Fight_ for him? Max didn’t think he could bring himself to fight. He didn’t even know if it would be worth it. How could he be sure that these feelings were even reciprocated? Brice was too... _much_ for Max. He was out of his league, plain and simple. Max wasn’t interesting enough to keep someone like Brice entertained. He told himself this while squeezing a year of constant internet contact from his mind.

And Brice... Brice was _not_ helping. He must have noticed Max’s furious internal arguing, because he insisted on asking if he was okay. And because in the car, his hand had softly rested against Max’s arm as the three of them squished in the back seat. And because, as the crowd moved at the concert, Brice’s hand would brush off his, and Max had swallowed, too many times, the urge to reach out and take hold of it. And because, worst of all, Brice didn’t seem to notice any of this.

He knew, at some point, he would have to go back and find Brice. At some point. He didn’t want to do it now- not when there was a chance that _Last Call to New York_ \- Brice’s eternal song- might come on. Max didn’t trust himself not to cry.

“Max?”

Max recognised the voice and raised his head, startled.

Brice stood a few feet away; hands out, palms up, looking concerned.

“What’s going on, Max?” Max didn’t like the worry in his voice. He didn’t want Brice to worry about him. Well, he did- but not because Brice felt sorry for him.

“Cigarette.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“Yeah.” Crap. “I don’t.”

Brice swallowed. “Are you okay?”

“You’re missing the gig, Brice.”

“ _You’re_ missing the gig.” Brice shot back. “Is it...” His voice went soft. He balled his hands in to fists. “Did I... do something? Wrong? Is that it?”

“You?” Max replied, stunned. “You haven’t done _anything_ wrong.” Well, he corrected, except exist. “Where’s Marc?”

“He’s back at the stage.”

“You really shouldn’t leave him on his -“

“ _Max_ ,” Brice cut across him. “I don’t want to be with Marc tonight, okay? I want to be with _you_ ,” he finished, shouting.

 _Me?_ Max’s head began to swim again. _He wants to be with_ me _._ But his brain wouldn’t elaborate on the thought.

Meanwhile, in the concert behind them- miles away from this bubble they existed in, just the two of them- the song ended, and the crowd roared. Brice flinched, and shut his eyes.  Max became suddenly, horribly aware of the tension that creased his face. He felt his heart lurch. Why wouldn’t Brice smile, and make everything alright?

“Brice,” he started slowly, “are you... okay?” He hated the blatant emotion in his voice when he asked that. _Be okay_ , he prayed, _don’t let it be my fault._

Max wasn’t sure if what happened after that happened too fast or was just too much for his brain to comprehend.

Brice’s eyes opened, astonished. Max mourned at the sight of his slack lips. His brain was still processing the image of him there, several feet away, when Brice strode towards him with his hands outstretched.

Max’s brain then didn’t process anything for several, long seconds. And when it came round, Brice had his hands curled around his cheeks and his lips were hot on his mouth and Brice was kissing him.

Max had never been kissed before, and in the brief second where he asked himself what he should do his body seemed to already know. His arms had wound around Brice’s waist without him telling them to, and his mouth moved too, in time with Brice’s. He wondered if he was doing it right, but Brice was still kissing him, so he decided that he must have been.

But this was _Brice_ kissing him, he realised. _Brice!_ For the first time since this had started, Max took control of his body and made it move closer to Brice’s. Brice’s hand curved around and in to his hair, and Max wondered if his chest would explode. His nose filled with soap, his fingers filled with the soft fabric of Brice’s tshirt as he curled them in to Brice’s frame.

 _Brice_.

Smiling Brice flashed behind his shut eyes. This was the same Brice kissing him- that wonderfully kind, smiling, funny, out-of-his-league Brice- and _he_ had kissed him. It was Brice’s mouth that ran all over his and electricity coursed through Max’s stomach at the thought.

_Brice! Brice! Brice!_

A low growling noise caught in Max’s throat, surprising him, and it caused Brice to pause, then stop and Max’s mouth suddenly felt far too cold.

When his eyes opened Brice was close. So very wonderfully close that Max could see his individual, long eyelashes and broken skin on his lips that suggested that Brice frequently chewed them.

“Maxi...” he breathed, his eyes searching Max’s face. Was it was question, Max wondered, drinking in the dark brown of Brice’s gaze; or a declaration?

He raised his hand from Brice’s waist and touched at the unshaved patch under Brice’s jaw, to smooth it. Something flashed in Brice’s eyes that caused Max’s heart to lurch again. It disappeared almost as soon as Max allowed his hand to reach up to his cheek.

Max could never have imagined that this Brice could feel vulnerable. But he had, when Max had taken his hand off him. He was afraid that Max would say no to this. And how could he think like that after all that kissing?

Max wondered how anyone could make Brice feel that. _Someone he cares about a great deal_ , he decided. _I didn’t even think he had a guard to let down._

Did this mean he cared about Max, _that_ much?

He smiled, breathless, gently letting his hand curl around Brice’s cheek.

 _Will Brice’s mother mind,_ he wondered, _when she gets up tomorrow to find the couch hasn’t been slept on?_ Or if Max visited again, and the couch became more of a suggestion, in lieu of many nights under Brice’s glow-in-the-dark stars?

Brice’s lips trembled. Max remembered how much he liked kissing. How much he liked Brice kissing him. Why had they stopped?

He pulled Brice’s mouth back to his and his world consisted only of Brice’s warm mouth and soap and gentle hands and, on a stage several light years away, the first chords of _Last Call to New York City._


End file.
